


Spoken True

by hoopyfrood42



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Battle Couple, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Casual Sex, Childhood Friends, Denial of Feelings, Eivor is always cold, F/M, First Time, Flickering flame my ass, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Missing Scene, One Shot, Or Does It, Sexual Content, Vili is a human furnace, What happens at Odin's Hovel stays at Odin's Hovel, Why Ubisoft why, Yeah keep kidding yourselves that this is a one-time thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29878320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoopyfrood42/pseuds/hoopyfrood42
Summary: His brows are furrowed as if in deep concentration, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth half open, gusts of his breath hanging on the air as pale mist. As the firelight faintly illuminates his features, Eivor is sure that even though there is no emotional gravity or significance to what has just transpired between them, this particular image of him will linger in her memories.---This is basically my headcanon of what happens between Eivor and Vili after the screen fades to black at Odin's Hovel. Contains spoilers.
Relationships: Eivor/Vili Hemmingson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	Spoken True

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently played AC Valhalla and like many others I basically fell head over heels for the Eivor/Vili relationship (and yes it is a relationship AND DON'T YOU DARE TELL ME OTHERWISE UBISOFT). Also like many others, I was extremely disappointed by how the relationship was handled in the long run because these two complete idiots in love deserve SO MUCH MORE. So I decided that I would try to write something in order to fix what Ubi obviously messed up (loved the game otherwise btw so please don't sue).
> 
> This work is actually part of a multichapter fix-it fic that I am currently in the process of writing. I decided to post it now because god knows how long that larger piece is going to take me and I am impatient. Also I think it works fairly well as a one shot.
> 
> English is not my first language so please bear with me - and also this is the first time I have written anything in terms of fiction, ever. And I am completely new to AO3 or any of this tagging etc business. So I hope this is not too bad and you can enjoy it somewhat. 
> 
> ALL THE EIVILI LOVE! <3

“Shut up, Vili.”

Eivor sees the familiar smirk bloom on his face before her eyes close and her mouth meets his. He tastes of spiced mead and something else that she cannot quite place. Vili sinks down into the furs, pulling her on top of him as his gloved hand tangles in her braids. Her fingers quickly find the clasp that holds his cloak together at his throat and undo it, the heavy fabric and the pelt sliding from his shoulders. She continues with the straps and buckles of his chest armour while he is busy trying to get hers off. His beard scrapes softly against her skin as their mouths move against each other, tongues meeting and heat building quickly between them despite the cold as they discard leather and metal and weapons and belts and boots. 

The thrum of Eivor’s blood is still strong in her ears from their battle in the abandoned mine. She craves a way to burn off all that adrenaline, quieten the roar of battle-lust coursing through her, and a lay – with a man she knows and trusts, no less – is exactly what she needs right now. She reckons that Vili must feel much the same, seeking release and an outlet where the throes of combat have granted him none. There is no romance or sentiment in their getting straight to it, this is strictly physical passion driving them, but Eivor finds she does not mind. Their practiced movements are those of two warriors, two comrades-in-arms, simply working towards a shared goal. 

When they are both down to their underpinnings, Vili pulls himself up from the furs and rises to his knees. His hands grasp the hem of his dark red linen tunic before he pulls it over his head. The cloth reveals heavily tattooed skin, darker than Eivor’s, stretched over thick cords of muscle. Fine black hair smattered lightly across the expanse of his chest trails downwards, below his navel. The firelight casts glow and shadow over him, emphasizing the many scars scattered about his built torso. One stands out in particular, a crude patch of sinewy tissue about a hand’s breadth above his heart. It is a knotted and gnarled thing, much like the remainder of the wolf’s fangs on Eivor’s own neck and she makes a mental note to ask him about it some time. For a moment, she marvels at the physical change in him since she has last seen him bare-chested, half a lifetime ago. Not much is left of the wiry, lanky youth whose limbs had always seemed a tad too long, rendering him with a somewhat awkward air even when he had already been a more than fairly skilled fighter. Her eyes follow the intricate patterns and swirls of his tattoos, extending from his shoulders all the way down his arms and onto his hands. She can see slight goose-skin forming on his forearms. 

It occurs to Eivor then that they are outside in the middle of the night, in the snow, with nothing but a meekly flickering fire and some furs to shield them against the cold. She cocks an eyebrow and blinks up at him. His eyes are trained on her face, the corners of his mouth turned up almost knowingly and she realizes that he has probably watched her watching him. She feels the slightest flush spread across her cheeks.

“You _are_ aware that it is snowing, Arse-stick?”

He tosses his tunic to the side absentmindedly and shuffles closer on his knees.

“I have never really minded the cold, as you may remember.” He shoots her a cocky, all but arrogant grin, teeth flashing in the dim light beneath the dark bristles of his beard. “And do not pretend that you are not enjoying the view, Wolf-Kissed.”

An exasperated snort escapes her and the tips of her ears feel just a little warmer than the chill air should allow. Vili has always been confident about his looks – and rightfully so, she has to admit, even more so today than years ago – but she will not have any of his bragging.

“The view of what – your scrawny pigeon-chest? I have seen kitchen maids sturdier than that.” 

He gives a casual shrug and extends a hand to her, pulling her up to her own knees as she grasps it. His eyebrows are raised as he peers down at her, his expression one of mockery. 

“I should very much like to meet such a maid. She might be more thankful for the chance to share Vili Hemmingson’s furs than you are.”

Eivor has missed this, missed bantering and bickering with him, back and forth, never with the intent of actually hurting the other – well, most of the time – but all of it for good humour’s sake. It has always been their way of communicating, of sharing both grief and joy, and memories of their jests and derisions had been on her mind regularly throughout the span of their separation. And even though she would have expected nothing else, it pleases her just how easily they have fallen back into their old ways even after all these years.

His mouth is back on hers then and the witty retort forming in her head escapes her. Warm hands – _how are they actually warm?!_ – sneak beneath her tunic and fist into the fabric, motioning to pull the garment off of her. Not breaking their kiss, she gives his arm a firm smack, half-playful, half-serious. He lets his hands fall and pulls back slightly, peering down at her through thick lashes with a mildly puzzled expression. She glances up at him defiantly and it annoys her a little just how far she has to crane her neck to do so. Her eyes narrow in mock irritation.

“You best believe _I_ am keeping my tunic on, troll-face. I will not suffer frostbite just so you can feast your eyes.”

Vili seems dumbfounded for a moment. Then a guffaw of laughter escapes his throat, his shoulders shaking. His breath is a white cloud in the frosty air and Eivor cannot help the grin that spreads across her own face despite her effort to maintain an earnest expression. When he quietens down again his eyes find hers, mirth in his gaze.

“Those lush forests of Mercia have truly softened you, old friend. Here I thought you were a battle-hardened _drengr_ and not some English milksop. But oh well,” he gives an exaggerated sigh and bows his head to meet her, “have it your way.”

He kisses her again, hands slipping back underneath her tunic, the loose fit of the garment allowing him to slide his palms up her torso. Soon, his fingers find her breastband and pull the cloth down so it falls to her waist. His palms land on her breasts, kneading at her flesh. His touch is deft and skilful, applying just the right amount of pressure and the friction of his calloused skin against hers mixed with the taste of his tongue in her mouth has heat coiling low in Eivor’s belly. She guesses that he must have had no small amount of practice on Northumbria’s local women. Vili has never been shy in regards to carnal pleasures, and she can remember plenty of girls approaching him even when he had barely counted eighteen winters. It cannot have been much different here in England’s northern realms – but it will certainly not be to her own disadvantage, Eivor thinks with a smirk against his lips.

\---

The heat between them builds rapidly as nimble fingers undo laces and hands slide below hipbones and into the waistbands of breeches, both of them finding each other’s most sensitive areas. Eivor finds her suspicions about him knowing just how to touch a woman confirmed as his digits slide against, then inside her and she cannot suppress a moan. Vili swallows it greedily. They work each other, their kisses growing more and more urgent, until finally Eivor decides that this has been enough build-up, she wants to feel him and quickly. Tearing her lips from his, she shuffles around on her knees until her back is to him. Grabbing her own waistband, she pulls the soft leather leggings down unceremoniously until the crumpled material sits just above the back of her knee. Then she rucks her tunic up above her hips, baring her backside. 

There is no immediate reaction from Vili, he seems to have stilled, and Eivor twists at her waist to peer back at him over her shoulder. His expression in the flickering light is somewhere between confusion and amusement, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. She shoots him an irritated glance.

“What? I am not taking off any more clothes, it is _freezing_! This –,“ she gestures vaguely between them, “– is practical!” 

With a slack-jawed expression, he slowly shakes his head. His eyes rake her up and down, a lopsided grin spreading across his features, but there is a heat in his gaze despite the amusement. He scrambles closer to her, there is a rustling of clothes and Eivor relaxes with a sigh as he grips her hips and she can feel him press against her. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a strange woman? Even for a Norse.”

There is a playfulness to his tone, but his voice is low and gravelly. Eivor feigns annoyance at him.

“I have been called much worse. Now will you stop talking and ––“

The rest of her sentence is lost in a groan as he thrusts into her. Thanks to his previous efforts, she is slick and ready for him and he slides in easily enough – but still the sensation is almost a little unpleasant at first, her body struggling to accommodate to his girth. Vili gives her a moment to adapt and catch her breath, then sets a slow, almost leisurely pace, fingers digging into her hipbones for leverage. Once she feels her body soften more around him, Eivor’s forearms sink down into the wolf pelts and she shifts some of her weight to her shoulders and elbows, arching her back in a sinuous curve and presenting herself to him more fully. Something like a choked gasp escapes him and he grips her a little harder, but his pace remains steady as his hips roll into hers. 

Eivor has always enjoyed this particular position, something about getting plowed at this angle hitting all the right places within her. Before long, she finds herself rocking back against him rhythmically and meeting his thrusts halfway. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at her hips and arse, allowing her some movement while steadying her at the same time, controlling her motions so they match his perfectly. She realizes in that moment that while she is certainly a forceful woman capable of mastering most men in battle, Vili possesses a physical strength, a raw power that even she cannot match. She just might best him in a fight nonetheless thanks to her speed and agility, but right here and now, dominance is wholly his. The thought shoots a surge of heat straight to her groin and she sinks even lower, pressing her cheek into the furs, seizing fistfuls of the fine strands of animal hair. 

Both their breaths are getting more laboured now, gasps and moans slipping out at every thrust and Eivor can feel a familiar pressure build inside her, rising and rising. When she senses that she is nearing the edge, she pushes herself up and presses her back to Vili’s warm chest, melting against him. He gets her hint and slips a hand from her hip to between her legs, his fingers stroking and caressing in circles until finally she gives a hoarse, choked cry and constricts around him, her head falling back against his shoulder. Her climax washes over her in waves, threatening to sweep her away but he holds her through it, steady and stable. When she comes down from her high after breathless moments, his palm is on her breast and his mouth at the nape of her neck, muttering incoherent whispers into her skin, his strokes gradually becoming quicker, more erratic. There is a brief instant where Eivor thinks that she can hear her own name among his murmurs, but she quickly attributes it to her imagination and the aftershock of her own pleasure. Only a few more heartbeats pass before Vili tenses up behind her and suddenly pulls out of her with a groan. Glancing sideways, she watches his face as he takes himself in hand and spills on the stony ground beside them. His brows are furrowed as if in deep concentration, eyes squeezed shut and his mouth half open, gusts of his breath hanging on the air as pale mist. As the firelight faintly illuminates his features, Eivor is sure that even though there is no emotional gravity or significance to what has just transpired between them, this particular image of him will linger in her memories. 

\---

When their breaths have evened somewhat and both have readjusted their breeches, they sink down into the thick furs side by side. Vili is on his back and his arm is sprawled below her shoulder, rolling her over and pulling her into the side of his body. Eivor rests her head on the area between his biceps and chest, her arm splaying across his front, hand on his sternum. His heartbeat is strong and steadfast beneath her palm. She takes a deep breath and the scent of him – leather and woodsmoke and some type of spice – fills her nostrils.

For a brief moment, the reality of their situation slides to the forefront of her mind. Only a few days ago they had met again for the first time in thirteen winters, their spirits largely unburdened in the moment of reconciliation, sorrows and greater worries shoved aside at the newfound joy of encountering each other. Now Hemming Jarl lies dead, Vili is facing a legacy and a way of life he does not yearn for and Eivor finds herself burdened by the weight of a decision she still does not know how to make. And tonight, two childhood friends lie on wolf pelts by the fire with each other’s taste on their tongues, limbs entangled and skin touching skin, any physical distance between them discarded.

Eivor swiftly files these – somewhat confusing – strings of thought away for another time. Tomorrow will be a new day – for now she is simply tired, but in a good way. A contented breath escapes her. Her body feels utterly sated, the roar of blood in her ears now quietened and a peaceful calm settling within her. The steady rise and fall of Vili’s chest reminds her of the serene lull of gentle waves, guiding a longship safely home along the swan-road. His body heat seeps into her, amplifying the warm and comfortable feeling.

“Are you really not going to put your tunic back on? Not that I am complaining,” she mutters lazily, absentmindedly running her hand along his skin. His low chuckle reverberates through her.

“As I have told you, not everyone minds the cold as you do, little chicken _drengr_.” His voice is a little hoarse and he yawns. “And I for one am much too spent and tired to get back up and fetch that wretched thing.” 

She smiles against his chest.

“Old age wearing you down, Arse-stick? I would not have forced you into such physical exertion had I known you were so frail.”

He scoffs at her. She anticipates a sharp retort – instead, after a quiet moment, he presses a kiss to the top of her head. The act catches her by surprise, unexpected but not unpleasant, and there is the slightest flutter in her stomach for just an instant, but she is sure that she is imagining it. She is beyond drowsy, after all. 

“Shut up, Eivor,” he murmurs idly into her hair.

Sleep takes her soon after that. 

\---

When they first stir awake, sunrise is still a while away and the embers of the fire beside them have all but turned to ash. 

The words they find for each other while Vili gets up and dresses are quickly spoken in mutual agreement, telling of _momentary heat_ and _flickering flame_ and _just this once_. 

As the sound of his heavy footsteps in the snow recedes into the twilight, Eivor’s eyes drift shut once again, her body pleading for just a few more moments of rest. 

She is almost entirely sure that those words were spoken true.


End file.
